


At the End of the Storm

by morethansky (amphitrite)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Implied Character Death, M/M, MTMTE, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amphitrite/pseuds/morethansky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of tragedy, Tailgate finds comfort in his roommate. Set after More Than Meets The Eye #15.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the End of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> There is not nearly enough post-MTMTE #15 fic and not nearly enough non-PWP Cyclonus/Tailgate fic (not that I'm complaining about all the glorious smut!)—so here's my humble contribution. On a side note, I'm of the opinion that many more bots were injured or killed than were shown on-panel during the issue, which I think might show a little here. Also, please heed the spoiler warning!

For days after Overlord’s rampage, Tailgate thought he could hear the sounds of Chromedome alternately crying and screaming through the walls of the Lost Light. An uneasy tension hovered over the ship’s crew, warping every mundane interaction with awkwardly stilted speech and the uncomfortable aversion of optics. The medbay was overflowing with injured mechs and dying mechs—and dead mechs. Those who had survived the massacre either hid away in their hab suites or congregated at Swerve’s, laughing too hard at forced jokes and drinking an unwise amount of high-grade at an alarming rate.

Between his shifts, Tailgate joined the other bots at the bar, preferring the distracting company of Swerve and (a battered but unfailingly obnoxious) Whirl and anyone else around to the awful helplessness and terror that gripped him as he struggled to fall into recharge. Rewind’s haunting absence stuck out like a sore thumb, and Tailgate found himself missing his friend desperately. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what Chromedome was going through, losing his conjunx endura in such a sudden, cruel twist of fate. Chromedome had barely spoken a word to anyone since it had all gone down, but Fortress Maximus and Blaster’s accounts of what they had witnessed had spread like wildfire among the crew, most of whom were still mystified as to how the frag Overlord had managed to board their ship. (Tailgate hadn't even known who the guy was!) But Tailgate tried not to think about it too much. He was plagued by enough nightmares as it was.

“What can I get ya, Tailgate?”

Tailgate offered Swerve a wry smile as he rested his elbows on the bar counter, crammed between two tall mechs silently nursing their energon cubes and clearly lost in thought. “I’ll just have one of whatever today’s special is, thanks.”

“Comin’ right up,” Swerve said cheerfully, but he was doing a terrible job of disguising the weariness in his frame. Concerned, Tailgate offered to help him on the other side of the bar, but Swerve waved him off. “It’s been good to keep busy,” he explained. “Keeps my mind from going dark places.”

Nodding, Tailgate cycled his vents. “I know what you mean,” he said glumly. “Any word on Ultra Magnus?”

Swerve shook his head. “I hear Rodimus refuses to leave his and Drift’s berthsides, even though First Aid keeps trying to either wrestle him into a recovery berth or kick him out of the medbay. Ratchet, too, when he’s awake, even though technically he’s still a recovering patient.”

Tailgate winced in sympathy. “I never thought I would ever say this, but…poor Rodimus.”

“Yeah,” Swerve agreed as he passed Tailgate his drink. “How are you holdin’ up, buddy?”

Tailgate shrugged. “I was up close and personal when Magnus fell, so…not great. But I feel stupid complaining when Chromedome…”

“Yeah,” Swerve said again. “Hound said he saw Chromedome and Ambulon arguing about his arm. Chromedome refuses to replace it. Something about penance and a promise he made Rewind, whatever that means.”

“ _Primus_ ,” Tailgate muttered.

“How’s big, purple, and scary? He’s probably impervious to this kind of stuff, right?” Swerve asked as he continued mixing drinks for the group of bots that had just meandered in.

“Cyclonus? We haven’t really talked since everything,” Tailgate said glumly. “He’s been coming back to the hab suite late and leaving before I power on.”

“He’s been here a lot,” Swerve replied, gesturing toward a secluded corner of the bar as he handed Blaster his drink. Tailgate's gaze followed the direction Swerve was pointing and saw that indeed, Cyclonus was sitting by himself in a booth, contemplating the half-empty energon cube cradled in his servo. “At least he can’t get mad about Movie Nights anymore,” Swerve said before cringing at the morbid thought.

Tailgate frowned at Swerve, though he knew his fellow minibot hadn’t meant anything by it. “I’m going to go keep him company,” he declared. “Let me know if you change your mind about needing help.”

Gripping his cube tightly, Tailgate approached Cyclonus’s table hesitantly. He waited until Cyclonus noticed him before he spoke:

“Mind if I join you?”

Cyclonus cycled his vents. “If you wish,” he said, sounding resigned and rather distant. Tailgate climbed into the booth, setting his modest cube beside the impressive array of large, empty cubes Cyclonus had already drained.

They sat in silence for what felt like cycles but his chronometer insisted were mere kliks. It wasn’t entirely awkward, though Tailgate mourned the loss of their recent closeness. Before Overlord and everything, Cyclonus had been teaching him more old songs and had started to speak to him in an open and cordial—almost _friendly_ —manner. Pleased at finally having gotten through to the standoffish mech, Tailgate had enjoyed coaxing stories out of him about the Cybertron he had loved so much.

Tailgate had even thought that he sometimes caught Cyclonus sneaking him affectionate looks and gazing at him appraisingly when he thought nobody would notice—though Tailgate tried his best to dismiss that speculation as wishful thinking. After all, he had been attracted to the warrior, just as anachronistic as he was, from day one, the surly demeanor and prickly attitude not standing a chance against Tailgate’s belief in the goodness of the mech beneath. The firmer their friendship became, though, the more hesitant Tailgate was to upset the status quo and risk alienating the mech he considered his best friend.

The day of Overlord’s attack, Tailgate had volunteered their hab suite for the viewing of the Lost Light documentary Rewind had been working on because he had been fairly confident that his friendship with Cyclonus was solid enough that it would lead to grumpiness rather than murder. But now that seemed like lifetimes ago, and Cyclonus felt so dishearteningly distant.

“Have I done something wrong?” Tailgate voiced hesitantly. He didn’t really believe that Cyclonus could possibly still be miffed about Movie Night, but one could never be too sure with the short-tempered mech.

“Hmm?” Cyclonus answered absently. “Why would you think… No, don’t be ridiculous, Tailgate, you have done nothing wrong. In fact, you’re not even being as much of an irritating chatterbox as usual.”

Tailgate fiddled with the curly straw in his drink. “It's just that you haven’t been around. We haven’t talked in days. I was starting to worry that you were avoiding me.”

Cyclonus fixated his optics on Tailgate, finally. “I merely desired some space, in the wake of recent events. And I assumed that you would as well.”

Shrugging, Tailgate sipped his drink slowly, feeling more secure in the knowledge that his friend hadn’t been ignoring him out of spite. Bothering Cyclonus was kind of fun, but he hated the thought of actually eliciting the other mech’s wrath, or worse, being dismissed as insignificant by him. “Being alone isn’t exactly my favorite thing right now,” he admitted.

Cyclonus made a neutral noise and took a long drag of his energon cube. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

Tailgate’s visor flickered in distress. “I really miss him,” he said despondently, clutching his helm. “He was brave and funny and smart. He was my friend—one of my first real friends. I’ll never forget him. I just hope he didn’t suffer in the end.”

Slowly, deliberately, Cyclonus laid a servo over Tailgate’s own and pulled it from his helm so that it rested on the table beneath Cyclonus’s much larger digits. Though his face remained impassive, Cyclonus squeezed Tailgate’s servo once, hard enough to be a keen sensation without leaving any dents. The unexpected pressure was pleasant, jerking Tailgate abruptly from his melancholy thoughts.

“Cyclonus?” he said uncertainly.

“Is there anything I can do to alleviate your pain?” Cyclonus replied. Tailgate’s optics widened in a cross between surprise and confusion. Cyclonus squeezed his hand again, adding a little more hesitantly: “It is…disconcerting…to see you this morose, Tailgate. I don’t like it.”

“Ah… Well…” Tailgate said. “Can I… Will you…” he mumbled, “could you maybe just hold me for a nano-klik?”

Cyclonus stared at him, expression unreadable. Embarrassed, Tailgate squirmed under the inscrutable gaze and laughed nervously. He tried to retrieve his servo, but Cyclonus's grip was too strong. “Um, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he babbled. “You probably don’t do hugs… Which is totally fine! Nothing wrong with that. Sorry I asked. Stupid, stupid. Oh Primus, please don’t kill me?” Cringing, he drained the last of his drink and glanced at where Cyclonus’s servo was still resting on his own, the reassuring weight warm and heavy. It made him feel safer, somehow, even as his spark pulsed wildly in his chest, undeterred by his mortification.

“Come here,” Cyclonus rumbled.

“What?” Tailgate squealed.

“Well, I certainly can’t reach you from over here, can I?” Cyclonus said nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just suggested the completely ridiculous idea of actually humoring Tailgate’s odd request.

“Oh,” Tailgate said dumbly. It took him a moment for his processor to realize he should take advantage of Cyclonus’s strangely charitable mood while it lasted. Clambering out of his side of the booth, he gaped openly at the bizarre sight of Cyclonus scooting against the wall and patting the small vacated space beside him with his servo. Tailgate climbed up beside him hastily, eying his friend warily as he started to feel warm just at their close proximity. How was one to go about hugging a grumpy old mech like Cyclonus?

But before he could ponder it any longer, Cyclonus’s enormous arm came up behind Tailgate, encircling his shoulders and tugging him closer until his small frame was resting against the side of Cyclonus’s powerful one.

A nano-klik whizzed by. Neither of them moved. Cyclonus was so much warmer to the touch than Tailgate would have expected. In his embrace, with his arm wrapped so effortlessly around his frame, Tailgate felt protected and cared for—even if that was just his fantasies speaking.

“Cyclonus?” Tailgate said after a beat, though he was afraid of ruining the moment.

“Do you feel better?”

“Yes, much better," Tailgate said, nodding rapidly to emphasize his point. “So, um, you can let go now if you want.”

Cyclonus peered down curiously at him, optics still frustratingly unreadable. “Do you wish me to?”

“Er?” Tailgate mumbled. “N-not exactly, no. But—what if people see you?”

“Let them see. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Unless you do?”

“What?” exclaimed Tailgate. “No! Of course not!”

Cyclonus chuckled quietly and hummed a content note, pulling Tailgate even closer to his side. He leaned down to press his lip plates to the top of Tailgate’s helm in a kiss.The smaller bot jerked in surprise at the tender gesture, shooting his friend a bewildered—yet hopeful—look.

“Relax, Tailgate,” Cyclonus said soothingly, his intimate intonation sending pleasant shivers down Tailgate’s back. “Just relax. I have you."

As Cyclonus’s digits rubbed his arm gently, Tailgate shuttered his visor and did his best to lose himself in the comfort of the solid weight against him. Later, he would ponder Rewind’s sacrifice and try to find some way to offer Chromedome comfort. Later, he would visit Ultra Magnus and Rodimus and Drift and Ratchet and everyone in the medbay and ask if there was anything he could do to help to alleviate the medics’ burden. (He was a class-four bot, anyway; he had been built for mundane chores.) Later, he would insist on assisting Swerve as a waiter, at least during peak hours for a few days. Later, he would find out if Cyclonus was really interested in him, as he seemed to be trying to convey in his own clumsy way. Later, he would tell Cyclonus what he meant to him and how much he valued their unusual friendship. Later, he would confess to Cyclonus how terrified he was of losing him. Later, he might even try to initiate interface, if he were feeling especially bold.

But for now, he was content to rest in Cyclonus’s arms and let the world around him slip away. For now, he was shielded from the cold horrors of this unfamiliar world, so far removed from everything he had known.

For now, he was safe.

Warm.

Cherished.


End file.
